


The Art of Not Being Noticed

by Bluestocking79, Culumacilinte



Category: Sweet (2000)
Genre: Alley Sex, Dancing, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:32:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6311701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluestocking79/pseuds/Bluestocking79, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/pseuds/Culumacilinte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete has no shame; this may be a contagious condition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Not Being Noticed

**Author's Note:**

> The working title of this fic was _Pete Sweet and his RIDICULOUS ENORMOUS COCK, and What was Done With It_ , which I think tells you something about what to expect

He and Pete have been going out to clubs together for ages, but now they're together-together, the experience is different. Before, it was Pete dancing like an idiot and getting eyed up by half the population of the club-- male, female, or other-- while Stitch danced like an idiot next to him, and no-one paid him the slightest bit of attention. (Pete claimed occasionally that people _did_ pay him attention, but Stitch was always pretty sure that was bollocks, and just Pete trying to be nice). Sometimes, to shake things up, Pete would go get off with someone in the toilets, and Stitch would go stand by the bar and glower into his drink until Pete came back, pupils all huge and clothes rumpled, and full of dopey smiles and even less respect for personal space than usual. Now, Stitch has a go at the kind of together-but-separate dancing they used to do, but it doesn't last long before Pete drags him in behind him and encourages him to grind up against him, taking his hands and pulling them to his hips and craning up and back to grin up at him all breathlessly.

‘I love your big hands, Stitch.’ He says it like a kid talking about a roller coaster, all starry-eyed and ingenuous, but he's just a little bit wicked around the mouth, and Stitch... doesn't know what to say to that. So he does what he often does, and doesn't say anything, just lets Pete dictate the rhythm of their dancing, hands gripping his hips and trying not to grind too obviously against his arse.

Except Pete's got no fucking shame, none at all, and even if Stitch is trying to be discreet, Pete certainly isn't. It's not long before he's just swaying and grinding back into Stitch with a great fucking hard-on, making no effort to hide it, occasionally laughing at nothing, all giggly and flushed, like it's a great game, and what is Stitch supposed to do with that?

It's so _obvious_ , is the thing. Pete is so skinny, a twiglet of a man who barely looks like he's outgrown adolescence sometimes; he's nothing but ribs and lean meat and hair and _fucking enormous cock_. It'd be comical if it wasn't so blindingly sexy. There's no way to look at him and _not_ notice he's turned on, even if he wasn't writhing back up against Stitch like a cat in heat.

What's more, Pete's got no filter; he's babbling as they dance about Stitch's huge hands and big fingers and how much he likes them, how nice Stitch smells, how it's so different from dancing with girls, feeling Stitch behind him all tall and broad and that. And Stitch knows Pete well enough to know (or suspect, at least) that he's not even doing it for the sake of titillation, he's just being honest, letting his internal monologue out into the world without even a dream of censorship. There's a weird innocence about it, like he just never learned to protect himself against potential ridicule or rejection, never learned how to play it cool. It's something Stitch can barely fathom, and it stirs a weird blend of envy and arousal in his belly.

'You little tart', he mutters, burying his face against the back of Pete's hair and gripping his hips a little more firmly. 'You're gonna get us kicked out, carrying on like that; keep it in your pants.' Except one hand, quite independent of his command, slides possessively over Pete's stomach to pull him back against him, fingers just edging under the waistband of his trousers where his too-small shirt rides up.

Pete's breath catches for a moment at his touch against bare skin, and then he laughs again, breathy and giddy, wriggling back into Stitch. 'Initiative! Genius. Knew you had it in you.’

He's all pretty pink cheeks and hazy eyes and soft pale neck stretched where his head's lolling back against Stitch's shoulder, and part of Stitch would love to just indulge right there, despite the potential for getting kicked out, because, well, _fuck_. Pete's obscene, and he doesn't even realise it. That part of him really just wants to let his hand slide down further, clamp down on the ridiculous bulge there, palm Pete's cock through the fabric and feel the heat and hardness of it, feel it twitching nearly enthusiastically as the rest of him. And Stitch has got his own erection wedged up against Pete's back, which Pete is clearly _delighted_ by, to judge by the way he's wriggling back against him, which isn't helping his ability to think straight.

He's only had a couple gins; he's tipsy, but not properly drunk, but his brain feels like it's spinning between arousal and embarrassment and the still novel knowledge that he... can do this, that Pete's giant embarrassing stiffy is for _him_ ; that not only can he touch Pete, but Pete plainly and vocally wants him to, likes it when he does. He's not quite used to that yet, it's kind of a rush.

Normally, Stitch prefers to blend into crowds, to slide around the edges of people's attention. And he manages to, normally. He's tallish, ganglyish, hair brownish and curlyish, but not _remarkably_ anything; not like Pete, who seems to be composed entirely of extremes, too skinny, with his ridiculous haircut and huge eyes and flat nose and witchy chin. And normally, between the two of them, it's Pete who draws stares, and that's fine by Stitch. People either think Pete's gorgeous or a gargoyle; they rarely think anything about Stitch. But now, obviously together, Stitch is part of his orbit; stares at Pete encompass him as well. Sometimes that makes him uncomfortable, but right now, with Pete being all wanton and ridiculous and shameless, there's a part of him that wants everybody to stare, a clutching, possessive urge for them to _see_ , so they can appreciate that this is for Stitch, that this is the effect he has on Pete. He still can't understand why, exactly, but he's learning not to test that quite so much and just accept it.

Of course, the embarrassment is still there too; it's hard for Stitch to ever entirely get rid of that without chemical assistance. So he desperately avoids meeting anyone's eyes, whilst quietly, privately burning with vindication that they're watching, wanting Pete, and Stitch is the one who gets him.

Even considering that, though, it's getting increasingly hard to forbear from just straight-up molesting Pete in the middle of the club. There's too much pressure and he's beginning to feel a little dizzy with how turned on he is, can _feel_ the heat radiating off Pete where his hand's clamped to his belly. But with the timing of a saint, Pete grins back at him again, either somehow psychically picking up on that or else he's feeling finally fit to burst himself, grabbing Stitch by the hand and tripping off to a back door, laughing breathily and dragging Stitch behind him.

The music's a blur in his ears, his senses not full of much other than Pete's sweaty hand in his and the throb of his cock pressed against the inside of his chinos, until the body-warmth of the club gives sudden way to cool, humid outside air. Their momentum carries them into an outside wall, Pete still laughing all the way, and Stitch doesn't even have time for embarrassment before he's pressing up against Pete, _finally_ , fitting their crotches together, breathing, 'You know they all know _exactly_ what we're going off to do.'

It's the sort of sentence that, ordinarily, if Stitch said it, would sound hassled or nervous or paranoid, but now, his voice comes out all breathless and deep, confusedly aroused by the notion, and Pete laughs, and groans, and grabs his arse, directing another one of those dazzling grins up at him. He shakes his head so that his fringe falls over his eyes. 'No-one was watchin' us, Stitch; they're all busy dancing and drinking, ain't they?'

He's entirely guileless, gorgeous in the dim light, all strange angles and wide, glittering smile, the kind of thing that goes _straight_ to Stitch's cock. And now he can kiss Pete for it, hungrily, like he's starving for it, slot his erection up against Pete's and just roll his hips and grind and feel Pete wriggling back against him, groaning and giggling whenever one of them comes up for air. He can hold Pete firm against the bricks with the weight of his body and _loom_ over him and feel the effect it has on Pete, his eyelids fluttering like an escapee from a romance novel, head thrown back and face flushed and lip caught between his crooked teeth. The bared slope of his neck is so tempting that Stitch has to kiss his way down Pete's jaw, mouthing and sucking in a way that will surely leave Pete with love marks for days. He rather likes that idea.

The position is a little awkward; he has to hunch down to really get to Pete's neck, hand splaying over his chest, spanning his ribcage to hold him in place and _sucking_ hard at a spot on the front of Pete's neck where it'll show, groaning while he does because that thought is so stupidly, embarrassingly arousing. And Pete's hands are running all over Stitch; in his hair, down his arms, stroking his neck, clutching at his arse. He's all breathy little whimpers, grinding against Stitch's thigh like he hasn't had it in years, when in fact they'd had a shag this morning before they left the flat.

'Oh!' he gasps when Stitch scrapes his teeth over the already-forming bruise, and then grins again, huge and helpless. 'You are _well_ sexy.'

Stitch shakes his head, pressing Pete up against the wall again, feeling impossibly tall and broad against his skinny torso and the gorgeous hard heat of his cock, and Pete's eyes cross. Stitch is still thinking about that display back in the club, though, can’t stop his brain running over it, and he shakes his head again. 'They were all watching, fuck, who wouldn't be watching; you practically had your cock out. You’re-- fuck, Pete, you’re fucking-- pornographic.'

’Couldn't help it, could I? It just happens when you're out there, bein' all sexy...'

Knowing Pete, he'd like to keep talking, but he doesn't seem to be able to manage it when Stitch hunches further to suck at his clavicle, scraping his teeth over the slice of prominent collarbone bared by his collar. Instead, he settles for just breathing Stitch's name, yelping and whimpering when Stitch finds a nipple, hard through his shirt, and gives it a pinch. 'Fuck, Stitch', he gasps, writhing and wriggling and shoving his erection back against Stitch's without a hint of shame. ' _Stitch_ , more? Please? Touch me properly?'

And when Pete gasps for more like that, all weirdly hopeful, like there's the chance he might refuse, Stitch just drops to his knees, doesn't even think about it. Pete drives him wild, he really does, makes him feel... ravenous, greedy; he wants Pete in every conceivable way, every position, wants to do everything to him, with him. It freaks him out sometimes, but right now it's so good and he's so wound up, feeling about as drunk on Pete as those few gins, he can't be bothered. Pete's good influence, maybe. The tarmac is gritty through his trousers, but he can't be bothered about that either. He unzips Pete's trousers without ceremony, shoving his pants down and just-- nuzzling, for a moment, rubbing his mouth and cheek along Pete's cock, breathing in the scent of him, and it should be gross, but instead it makes his own cock _ache_.

Above him, Pete is whining, tiny little sounds like a puppy, like he can't help it, and it's ridiculous and endearing and makes Stitch's brain feel about like it's melting. His hips jerk so that his cock, absurdly, bumps into Stitch's ear, and Stitch is laughing when he swallows Pete down, huge hands on his thighs, splayed over the muscle and kneading. Years of park kick-arounds have given Pete _amazing_ thighs. The laughing does get a bit in the way of actually sucking him off, and all Stitch can do for a moment is sort of just... hold his cock in his mouth like a tit for a few moments before he gets a hold of himself. The vibrations seem to be doing the trick, though, because Pete actually _shouts_. Stitch looks up to see him staring down at him with a kind of wide-eyed desperation, and then he just shoves his hand into his mouth, biting down to stifle all the noises he wants to make, and his other hand slips into Stitch's hair, and that's all Stitch needs. Pete's fingers curl helplessly when he starts sucking in earnest, bobbing his head with hungry enthusiasm, all wet and sloppy. The tingling _tug_ of pleasure-pain that radiates out from his follicles when Pete pulls his hair makes Stitch moan a little himself.

His nose is full of the smell of Pete, the hot heavy weight of his cock pressing against his tongue, taut against the insides of his cheeks when he hollows them to _suck_ in a way that makes Pete wobble dangerously for a moment, the obscene bump of his cockhead against the back of his throat when he ducks in to take him deep. He's exhilarated and achingly, dizzyingly turned on, and smug, too, when he darts another glance up to see the state of Pete, his neck stretched up and the lovebites decorating it visible even in the orangey streetlight. His hands on Pete's thighs keep kneading, sliding restlessly up to his hips, to cup his arse, back again. Pete's fingers are curled hard in his hair, alternately tugging desperately and petting, a sort of gentle encouragement like he's one of his puppies, and he only wrenches his hand away, finally, to gasp a warning to Stitch when he's about to come.

In the pause afterwards, there’s a moment where Pete sags against the bricks, looking muzzily down at Stitch. His skinny chest is heaving and his mouth wet and dark from where he'd been sucking at his own hand, and all Stitch seems able to do is look back up at him like an idiot and think, as he often does, that Pete is the most stupidly beautiful man he's ever met. Except then Pete's laughing, dizzy and dopey and giddy post-orgasm, pulling him up and pressing _him_ up against the alley wall, all ridiculous grins and dreamy eyes, massaging his cock through his trousers, and he moans helplessly. He might have knelt like that, paralysed, for who knows how long; Pete's taken the moment and made it his bitch, and Stitch chokes on a hiccoughing giggle at that thought.

Pete swallows it by pressing himself up on his tiptoes to kiss Stitch against the wall, messy and intense and delighted, fumbling open his flies to pull his cock out. He immediately starts up a firm, deep stroke, and Stitch feels like he might faint, or possibly combust, at finally, finally being properly touched. ' _Christ_ ', he groans, jerking out of the kiss and hips jacking into Pete's hand.

If Pete had no filter before, he's got even less of one now, and now his mouth's not occupied with kissing, he babbles filthy appreciation as he jerks Stitch off. 'So fucking good at that, you are; proper porno deepthroating, like you ain't ever wanted anything so much as my cock, fuck, Stitch, that's so hot. I make a proper tit of myself whenever I try anything like that on you, but you're-- fuck, right in there, well skilled, you're so hot.' He runs over his own words in his enthusiasm to kiss Stitch again, biting hard at his lip because he _knows_ Stitch likes that-- and he does, he's whimpering, high and catching in his throat when Pete pulls back to resume his monologue, his face wedged into Stitch's neck so he can feel every word.

'Feelin' you like that back in the club, all hard and hot an' that all up against my back-- it's so wicked, how tall you are!-- and your big hands. Mmm, like a proper Northern bit of rough. I love your hands on me an' thinkin' about how I've had 'em up my arse, or watchin' you do yourself, get yourself ready for a bumming... Sometimes I get the horn just thinkin' about it.' He giggles. 'At work, or walkin' in the park, people must think I'm a right pervert.'

He's kissing Stitch's neck in between words, sucking and biting, the stimulation all just compounding until all Stitch can do is cling, overwhelmed, panting into Pete's hair, breathing things like 'Please', and 'Fuck--!' He's barely even registering the words anymore, just the sound of Pete's voice, the vibration of it in his ear, winding him up as much as Pete's hand on his cock.

When he's close, so close it'll only take a few more strokes, and his whole body's just trembling with it, Pete pulls back enough to look up at him. His face is entirely open, rosy-cheeked, eyes both dark and glittering. He looks delighted, so stupidly enamoured, like Stitch on the gasping brink of orgasm is the most amazing thing he's ever seen, looking at him the way people look at the Northern Lights or their favourite band performing live, all open-mouthed smile and something hungrily like wonder. And that's nearly too much for Stitch to handle, Pete looking at him like that; it makes something deep under his sternum _creak_. He can't deal with emotions and his incipient orgasm at the same time. So he squeezes his eyes shut and just clings to Pete, holds onto him like an anchor chain with everything spinning around him and his pulse up in his ears and so hot he feels like he might just burst out of his skin at any moment. Pete's hand twists, and he bites at his ear, and Stitch's voice _cracks_ embarrassingly, ridiculously, when he jerks and comes hard into Pete's hand, burying his face against his shoulder and digging his teeth into his shirt.

When Stitch's body unclenches, Pete's there hugging him close and petting his hair, giggling in pure delight. 'Oh, that was brilliant, Stitch! Look at that, it's gone all over me shirt! You kinky bastard.' Like Stitch has just done him a favour by coming all over him. ‘I can’t believe you! Back-alley blowies, that was _wicked_. You ain’t been replaced a pod person or something, have you?’

’Shuddup’, Stitch mumbles. His legs feel barely capable of holding him up, and his cock and bollocks and thighs are all _buzzing_ , his heart and lungs making a racket in his ears. 'Gimme-- fuck, gimme a minute.'

So Pete just laughs some more and continues playing with his hair, waiting for Stitch to come down again. When he does, he pulls back, frowning a little and vaguely swiping at Pete's shirt. It doesn't occur to him until he's done it that he's not got anything other than his hand to clean him off with, and he frowns again at his fingers when they come away sticky and dripping with strings of increasingly air-temperature semen. At that, Pete straight-up cackles, shaking his head like Stitch is the most endearing kind of fool.

'Daftie', he accuses between laughs, and takes Stitch's hand to suck his fingers clean, which makes Stitch's knees nearly buckle, which makes Pete laugh even harder. He wraps his arms around Stitch to try and hold him up, but Stitch dodges back, concaving his belly as much as he can to avoid getting his shirt as soiled as Pete's.

His brows knot, his mouth tugging awkwardly off to the side. His customary twitchy nervousness is making a return, right on schedule, now they've both come, and all he's left with is the nivid alley air and his cock hanging out of his trousers. He tucks himself back in, grimacing. 'I can't-- Pete, we can't go back in there like _this_ , you're all--' He gestures, uselessly. There's not really any mistaking the come all over Pete's shirt for anything other than what it is. Pete, of course, just chuckles, shaking his head, like this is an adorably unreasonable thing for Stitch to object to. His eyes are still a little fuzzy as he beams up at him, pressing up on his toes to smush a kiss to Stitch's cheek.

'Go gimme a drink.'

'What?'

Pete laughs again. 'Get me a pint! I'll stay right here, I promise, be good an' all.'

The grin Pete gives him, sweet and teasing, with entirely too much tongue in the corner, makes Stitch flush, and he acquiesces as much for an excuse to flee as anything else. No-one's looking at him when he slinks back into the club, trying his best to be nonchalant, even though he's sure he reeks of sex, with unsteady legs and dirty patches on his knees, embarrassingly obvious. But he orders a pint without any difficulty, and when he brings it back out to Pete, he's greeted with another glittering smile, like Stitch is Jason bringing back the Golden Fleece, rather than a pint of Carlsberg.

'Aw, cheers!' He downs half of it, a little sloppily (Pete's never quite had the trick of being able to open his throat to chug beer, though he tried continually when they were at uni. Stitch is now acquainted with what Pete can and can't do with his throat for... slightly different reasons), and then, without any preamble, dumps the rest down his shirt. 'Whoops', he announces, unrepentant.

Stitch blinks for a moment, and then-- he can't help it-- he laughs. When they both go back into the club, Pete gives the bartender his best big eyes as offers a self-deprecating laugh about how he spilled beer all down his shirt, could he have some napkins? Cheers, mate. And Pete hasn't ever been able to lie for shit, but apparently this is close enough to a truth that his guileless face wins the day, and he bounces back over to Stitch with a handful of thin bar napkins, mopping off his shirt and biting his tongue at him.

'Sorry I wasted your beer.'

'Sawright', Stitch says, because what else can he say? 'You can buy me my next one.'

Pete buys the next three rounds, and tells Stitch he can pay him back by bumming him silly later.


End file.
